


sweat, baby, sweat

by portraitofemmy



Series: measure in love [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Arielle is In Charge of This House, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Cottage Fic, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Long-term Polyamory, Mosaic Timeline, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, female dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: It’s hot, it’s so hot, too hot to fucking think, definitely too hot to play-fight. Everyone’s stripped down to their lightest clothing, Quentin and Eliot both in light linen shirts gaping open where they’re undone in the front. Arielle’s in her lightest dress, pastel green cloth embroidered with lavenders, and the right shoulder band has fallen down in the process of her drumming, hanging loosely in the middle of her upper arm.It’s left her shoulder and collarbone exposed, creamy white skin flecked with freckles. Eliot’s been watching Quentin’s eyes flick down to her shoulder for the past 10 minutes. Like he hasn’t seen her naked enough to know every freckle on her body, like a glimpse of hidden skin is still exciting.Queliot Week Day 5- Poly





	sweat, baby, sweat

**Author's Note:**

> *gestures vaguely* have some really, really dirty fucking. I don’t even know guys. 
> 
> Also, we’re taking it as rote for this ‘verse that Eliot’s sexual fluidity means he does occasionally experience sexual attraction to women, even if it’s not something he feels often. It’s clear in the text but I want to emphasis that _everyone in this bed is very happy to be there._
> 
> Thanks as ever to the wonderful [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for being my sounding block and fandom buddy.

The summer rains the year of Quentin and Arielle’s wedding are especially heavy.

There’s days where they don’t see the sunlight at all. Clouds hang dark and thick and heavy over the mosaic clearing, where midday feels like dusk. They try, valiantly, to complete a pattern a day, but sometimes they can’t even manage that, the wind whipping loose branches and other detritus around until they’re forced to retreat into the cottage.

Everything is too hot and too wet, and it would be kind of miserable except they’ve got wine and books and magic and songs.

Arielle had bought them a Fillorian lute, as a summer festival gift, and they’ve been trying to learn how to play it. Quentin, who at one time in his life had decided that learning guitar would be an excellent way to convince Julia to fall in love with him, takes to it better than Eliot but that works out. Quentin can’t sing to save his life, can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but this way they can all make music. Q picking out melodies on the lute and Arielle with her little hand drum, while Eliot and Arielle find harmonies together. 

Fillorian songs were ridiculous, and complicated, and often involved rounds which required Eliot to hold a harmony under Arielle’s melody for 2 or three stanzas. He still wasn’t really able to get through them without fucking it up, but that was fine. It was an excuse to laugh, and laugh, and laugh together, bright in the overcast day as rain pounds down on their roof.

“You fucked up the bit about the acid snails again,” Quentin points out, from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, lyre in his lap. 

“Because it’s about _acid snails,_ what fucking even,” Eliot says, waving his hand vaguely in dismissal. He’s flat on his back, head towards the foot of the bed, and it might be cooler to not to have half his body in contact with the mattress but he’s also feeling lazy as hell.

Arielle, sitting with her back against the wall and her little hand drum between her knees at the head of the bed, snorts. “You just want to sing the melody,” she accuses, and he sticks his tongue out at her.

It’s hot, it’s so hot, too hot to fucking think, definitely too hot to play-fight. Everyone’s stripped down to their lightest clothing, Quentin and Eliot both in light linen shirts gaping open where they’re undone in the front. Arielle’s in her lightest dress, pastel green cloth embroidered with lavenders, and the right shoulder band has fallen down in the process of her drumming, hanging loosely in the middle of her upper arm. 

It’s left her shoulder and collarbone exposed, creamy white skin flecked with freckles. Eliot’s been watching Quentin’s eyes flick down to her shoulder for the past 10 minutes. Like he hasn’t seen her naked enough to know every freckle on her body, like a glimpse of hidden skin is still _exciting._

Maybe Eliot should leave them to it, leave them alone for a bit, except part of the reason he’s all stretched out on the bed like this is because it’s also drawing Q’s eyes to his chest. That same flicker of interest then glancing away, like he’s going to get in _trouble_ for looking at Eliot’s chest hair and thinking about running his fingers through it. It’s adorable, really, how much Q _wants._

Eliot would be lying if he said he didn’t like it, feeling the tension radiating off of Quentin as he just looks at them, like he can’t believe he got this lucky, can’t wrap his brain around the fact that he gets to have them. It’s making _Eliot_ hot, the early prickles of arousal that make him want to arch his back a little, press back into the bed as pleasant throbs of excitement starts in his groin. 

Quentin and Arielle are still talking, but Eliot’s entirely lost the thread of the conversation now, focused as he is on feeling a little slutty on this late summer afternoon. From where he’s laying like this, he can reach his arm out easily and touch Q’s leg. It’s easy to cup his palm around Quentin’s ankle, run his thumb across the thin skin above the bone. _There isn’t,_ he thinks wildly in his heat-drenched brain, _a single part of you that I don’t love._

They’ve lapsed into silence, and Eliot takes that as an excuse. He levers himself up on one forearm, and mutters “Hey, Q,” just loud enough to get his attention. When Q looks down at him, happily quizzical, Eliot reaches up to slide his hand around Q’s neck, pull him down while Eliot pushes up for a kiss. Quentin makes a surprised little sound, but opens up for it easily when Eliot pushes in deep. Oh but it’s _good_ to kiss Quentin, years and years into it and Eliot isn’t tired of it, never could be when it makes all his nerve-endings come _alive._

Arielle, at the head of the bed, gives a little gasp, shocked and _hot_ with it, and well. They’ve kissed in front of her before, of course they have, but never like this. Never with purpose, never the kind of kiss that spoke of sex, that lead up to it. She shifts to move, probably thinking like he had been, that she should give them their time alone, but Eliot– doesn’t want her to go. 

He breaks the kisses, turning to look at her and ask, quickly, before he loses the chance. “Stay. Please stay, if you want to.” She stills, her pretty green wrap dress open to mid thigh where she’d been twisted halfway off the bed. Head tilted, curious, she sets the drum aside, and sits forward a little more. That strap is still hanging off her shoulder, and she raises an eyebrow at Eliot, like she’s answering a dare, maybe. 

Next to him, Quentin swears breathily, and Eliot turns to grin at him. He’s flushed, his mouth pink and soft and wet from Eliot’s kisses, and he’s looking at Eliot like– well, like Eliot just proposed a threesome, honestly. “Are you sure?” Quentin asks, and sure, okay, maybe of the three people in this bed, Eliot was the one least interested in all of the involved bits. 

But the heat of summer is clinging to him, and he’s been watching the exposed strip of skin on Arielle’s shoulder too, hasn’t he? Pushing up again, he presses into Quentin’s mouth for another achingly sweet, open kiss, and then draws back. Murmurs, against Quentin’s parted lips, “Go kiss your wife, baby.”

Arielle watches Q crawl over to her, an amused little smile on her lips as he pushes his face up towards her. But she kisses him, sweet and soft, and then not so soft at all. Arousal throbs through Eliot again, watching them kiss, because fuck. He’s never seen them kiss like this either. Q’s lovely face tilts for her, eyes fluttered shut, and next to him Arielle is slender but strong, unyielding. One of Q’s hands cups her waist, the other braced on the bed, and the way he’s swaying into her is like– like he wants to be inside her, _fuck_.

Eliot sits up, mostly because he wants to be closer to them, somehow get closer. He’s got vague ideas about wrapping his arms around Q and kissing the back of his neck, but as soon as he moves, Arielle breaks away. She’s got that mischievous look on her face, and there’s barely a moment to register that he’s probably going to be _eaten alive_ by a lioness, before she’s leaning across Q’s body to kiss him.

And maybe he hadn’t meant this whole thing as a dare, but she kisses like she’s rising to one. She smells like peach blossoms and rosemary and _home_ , and he kisses her back instinctively, gasps when she bites a little at his lip, and then groans when she kisses him deeply. Oh, Eliot hasn’t been kissed like this in a long time, it’s– exciting, a little. To have someone push. 

Between them, Quentin makes a sound like he’s dying, maybe, and they break apart as laughter over takes them both. It bubbles up, rich and lovely, and Eliot raises an eyebrow to look at Quentin. “You’re both,” he starts, and then seems to lose all track of his words, staring openly at his wife like he’s never seen her before.

“Both hot as fuck?” Eliot whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of Quentin’s ear, flick his tongue out against it. “Yeah, we are. Both yours? We’re that too, baby.”

“You’re ours,” Arielle murmurs, and _oh_ , Eliot loves her. There’s the slick sound of them kissing again, and Eliot kind of wants to watch, but he wants to get his mouth on the soft column of Quentin’s throat more. He kisses his way down to Q’s adams apple, leaving little love bites that have Quentin gasping and squirming. Q’s shirt is hanging open, and it’s easy to stroke his hand across Q’s thin chest, rub the pad of his thumb against a pebbled little nipple.

“ _Eliot,_ ” Quentin gasps, breaking away from Arielle’s kisses to look down at him. Eliot grins, pushing up for a kiss of his own, and he feels Quentin _moan_ into his mouth, knows Q’s feeling his stubble on kiss-sensitive skin. Quentin leans into him, instinctive, and he’s just so fucking responsive, so fucking needy, open and honest with his never-ending want. Eliot’s hard cock throbs in his pants, but he feels lazy with it, no desperate edge to the hunger yet. 

“Can I watch you make her come?” Eliot asks, pulling back to look at Quentin’s lovely brown eyes. He slides the hand cupping Quentin’s jaw forward, brushing his thumb over where Q’s mouth is _red_ and wet. His eyes flick up to Arielle, who’s flushed delicate pink herself, her grey eyes hot from watching them. “Can I watch him eat you out?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and Eliot wants to kiss her again, does, lets her bite him and then soothe the sting until they break apart again. 

She pushes up onto her knees, reaching back for the tie on her dress, but Q beats her to it. One tug and the whole dress comes open, hanging loosely off her slender shoulders. She’s bare underneath, the soft swells of her breasts and rosy nipples, red flush under her pale skin and the light copper hair between her legs. She’s beautiful, Eliot thinks, achingly beautiful, and he can’t help but feel that same sense of awe he gets around her so often. This wonderful, witty, beautiful girl. Q’s head tips forward, kissing at the soft sweet swell of her lower stomach and Eliot laughs, catching his shoulder.

“Maybe let her lay down first,” he says fondly, and Q smirks.

“I can suck your dick with you standing, I can do this too,” he points out, but moves anyway, lets Arielle strip off the open dress and settle onto the bed. 

Q moves to follow, lets Eliot stop him long enough to get both their shirts off too, but he’s got a single minded focus now what he’s been given a task. Arielle laughs at him, bright and loud, and then gasps, back arching as his hand settles between her legs. Eliot strips his own pants, mostly so he can get a loose fist around his own cock, stroke himself lightly as Q settles between her legs.

He’s so lovely, so fucking beautiful, sets to eating her out with the same intensity Eliot’s been privy to hundreds of times. Eliot settles next to him, close enough that he can stroke a hand down Q’s back, across the tattoo between his shoulder blades. That makes Quentin moan, and Arielle gasps, arching against the vibration of it. 

“He’s good at this,” Eliot observes, and he remembers a little that it hadn’t always been true, that Margo had ended up flipping him over and straddling his face. “You’ve taught him well.”

“He’s very– _oh!_ He’s very teachable,” Arielle pants, and Eliot can feel the pleased little shivers running through Quentin’s body under his palm. Her eyes flutter open, meeting Eliot’s, then dragging down his body to his cock. He grins, putting on a little show of stroking himself, and she’d probably make fun of him for it except she’s really fucking turned on, Q’s clever tongue working over her clit. 

“Quentin,” she breathes, her gaze moving down to him as her hands tighten in his hair. He’s looking up at her, best he can, Eliot can tell. She smiles at him, and instructs, “fingers, sweetheart, I want to come on them.”

Quentin, always eager to follow instruction, obeys. Eliot can’t see his fingers sink into her but he can imagine it, the stretch of them where she’s wet and achy for it. Another throb of pleasure pass through him, and he takes his hand off his cock because fuck. Fuck, he’s not ready to be _done yet._

“Kiss me,” Arielle murmurs, and it takes Eliot a minute to register that she’s talking to _him._ But yeah, he can do that, can stretch up along her side and kiss her as she rides down on Q’s face. She’s warm against his chest, the softness of her breast different but not unwelcome. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and she nods, grabs his hair and pulls him back for a kiss because Arielle knows what she wants, apparently. He’s happy to give it to her, stroke up her soft stomach to cup her breast, play with a nipple lightly. She bites him, which he takes to mean she likes that, so he keeps doing it. 

She breaks away to cry out when she comes, and Eliot looks down between her legs to watch Q, clamped between her thighs. He’s a _mess_ when she finally lets him free, coming up to rest his chin on her pubic bone and grin up at them. He’s _drenched._ Fuck. Eliot reaches for him thoughtlessly, get his hand around the back of Q’s neck and pulling him up, up, up the bed so he can lick at the slickness on his lips, moan into his mouth at the taste of Arielle on his tongue.

“Eliot–” Quentin starts, breaking away to look over at Arielle, who’s still collapsed next to Eliot on the bed, “ _–loves_ it messy. He’d just leave me covered in come all day if he could.”

“Why you gotta read me like this?” Eliot says mournfully, then completely loses all coherent thought when Quentin moves enough to line up with him and then rubs down, riding their cocks together. Quentin’s still in his stupid baggy Fillorian pants, but they’re doing _nothing_ to hide his erection, and provide no real resistance when Eliot sticks his hands down the back to get at Q’s ass.

“I’m not complaining,” Quentin murmurs, and then he looks back, his smile is just for Eliot, that lovely dimpled smile. His hand rubs through Eliot’s chest hair, and Eliot would laugh at him except he’s been hard for like 20 minutes, and laughing at Q seems counterproductive to the things he wants.

“How’s your mouth?” he asks, because, well. Quentin is human, and jaws get tired. 

But Quentin smirks, a little, eyes dancing, and says, “You tell me,” before sliding down. 

Quentin’s mouth is, in fact, one of Eliot’s favorite fucking things in the world. Worlds. In the whole damn multiverse. Hot and slick and wet, Quentin’s wonderful mouth slides down over Eliot’s cock, careful hand passing over his balls to cup them gently. Eliot looks down long enough to watch his cock disappearing between Q’s lips, his fucking face still shiny with Arielle, and then has to look away.

“He’s good at this too,” Arielle observes, and Eliot rolls his head over to look at her. She’s watching them, hand down between her legs, and if that doesn’t make Eliot a little hotter, Jesus. “Did you teach him this?”

“He didn’t need much teaching,” Eliot pants out, looking back down at Quentin's eager face. “He’s a natural.”

Quentin’s eyes narrow, and Eliot’s delighted, loves him, loves _them_ , loves that so much of the sex he has now involves laughter and teasing and love. Quentin pulls off, hand keeping rhythm in a way that spoke of the _volume_ of experience Quentin has in this area, and then murmurs, lips brushing the head of Eliot’s cock, “You gonna come on me?”

Well fuck. He is now.

Orgasm rips out of Eliot long and slow, lazy and hot like the day, a hook behind his balls catching and pulling tight. Oh, _fuck_ , but he’s coming across Quentin’s chin and neck, a single streak of it landing on his pretty, pretty lips, red and absolutely _wrecked_ from them.

When Arielle leans forward and licks that single stripe from Q’s lips, Eliot could swear his vision whites out a little. 

“Ari,” Quentin pants into her mouth, and fuck, he’s still hard, he’s still wearing his _pants_ , that’s not possibly fair to him.

“Come here, baby,” Eliot murmurs, affectionate and loose with post-orgasmic tingles, propping himself up against the head of the bed so Q can shed his pants and settle between his legs, back to chest. Like this, Eliot can wrap his arms around Quentin’s chest, hold him close, pet his hair and kiss his neck as his wife prowls up towards them, lioness stalking her prey. 

“She’s going to eat you alive,” Eliot whispers into Quenton’s ear, feels him moan, squirming a little. 

Arielle climbs into Quentin’s lap, kisses him with single-minded purposes, rocking down against the line of his cock. Eliot watches them kiss inches away from his face, lost in how beautiful they are together. Quentin breaks away, head falling back helplessly onto Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot can just see that she’s sunk down onto him, rocking his cock inside. 

She rides him hard, and it’s seems like it’s all Q can do to grip her hips and hold on. He’s been hard as long as Eliot had, and actively doing things which fucking _turn him on like crazy,_ so it’s no surprise to Eliot that he’s on the edge so fast. Arielle seems like she’s chasing another orgasm, though, and Q’s too fucking gone to help her get there.

Eliot reaches forward, brushes his fingers questioningly at the top of the curls between her legs, and when she nods eagerly, further down. Her skin is slick and swollen against his fingers, and she moans, riding faster, grinding hard against his knuckles on her clit.

“Eliot,” Quentin pleads, head tucked against Eliot’s neck, and Eliot nuzzles back against him, tucking his nose into Quentin’s hair. 

“She’s almost there, just hold on a little more,” Eliot whispers, and Quentin _moans._ So does Arielle, her hands going tight on Quentin’s shoulders as she chases it. Her head tips back, beautiful, and Eliot watches in rapture as she comes. Q follows after her seconds later, coming inside her, shivering apart in Eliot’s arms. 

Arielle meets Eliot’s eyes when she goes to pull off Q, one brow raised. “Watch,” she whispers, and he watches, enthralled as she pulls off, Quentin’s come leaking out of her. Eliot shudders, runs his fingers through it because Quentin’s right, he _does like it,_ likes it viscerally. 

“God, Ari,” he breathes, and sighs when she kisses him, once, short and sweet like goodbye.

Quentin passes out with his face planted in Arielle’s tits after, because of course he does. That’s got to be uncomfortably hot for both of them, but Ari doesn’t seem to mind. She strokes his long hair gently, and the look on her face as she looks down at him feels more like seeing her truly vulnerable than watching her come had. Eliot wonders, a little, if he’s ever going to stop feeling awed that she lets him share this with her. 

“I think we broke him,” he jokes, lightly, reaching forward to trace his fingers along the familiar lines of Quentin’s tattoo. 

Arielle giggles, light and girlish in a way she almost never is. She’s so beautiful, when Eliot looks back at her. Like a work of art brought to life, but all the more gorgeous because she’s a real living breathing woman who loves them. _Sometimes you like Thai food,_ he thinks, abruptly, out of nowhere, and snorts out loud. 

“What?” Arielle asks, and her eyes crinkle a little at the corners.

“Thinking of something I said to Margo once,” he says with a shrug, and her face goes knowing. 

“You shared boys with her before,” Arielle hedges, clever, so fucking clever, smartest member of their family she is. 

“Yes,” Eliot agrees, then places the palm of his hand flat against Quentin’s tattoo. “I shared him with her, before. I just don’t really remember it.”

“That’s a shame,” Arielle murmurs, looking back down to where Q’s currently buried in her tits. “He’s worth remembering.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Eliot tips forward a little so he can press his forehead to Quentin’s shoulder blades. There’s a beat of silence, stretching out in the sticky summer heat, and then Eliot whispers, “I hope you know I love you both.”

And it’s true, maybe the most true thing he’s ever spoken, because it’s easier to be honest with her than it is with Q, somehow. He loves them both, in different ways. For Quentin, he feels a love that is built to endure lifetimes, the kind of love people wrote poems about and went to war for, Paris and Helen, Achilles and Patroclus. For Arielle, the love is shaped differently, not romantic in nature but no less primary.

“I do,” she agrees, and her fingers come to scratch through his curls for a moment, petting them back off his face like she’d been doing to Q. “I would do this again, with you two. Not often, maybe, not– instead.”

“No,” he agrees, because he understands her. Once she got him to stop being an idiot about this, they’ve always been on the same level about what it means, loving the same man who loves them both. “But... every once in a while.”

“Yeah.”

A beat, and then “I think we might break poor Q for real, if we did it too often,” Eliot says lightly. That makes Arielle laugh, her normal laugh, bright and bouncing around the little house. Q shifts, muttering in his sleep, and they both move to pet him calm on instinct. Eliot catches Arielle’s eye, smiling, and then settles into Q’s back to nap for a bit, headless of the stickiness of skin-to-skin contact.

Outside, the rains beat down, but here in their little cottage everything is quiet and calm and good. Naked limbs tangled together, they can doze for a while, sleep through some of the heat. They’ve got nowhere else to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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